The sergeant had his Armistice detail to thank for his ability to evade. The Eskimo of the Arctic foreshore is above average height, large muscled and trained by occasional necessity to battle with Polar bears. When boxing matches were put on at the detachment, in lieu of other diversion, Seymour had acted as instructor. His greatest difficulty had been to break his pupils of "hugging" and to teach them that a punch was more effective than a clinch any day or where. As a result, he was not only trained to the minute, but highly practiced in slipping out of clinches.
From the first, Bonnemort fought like the Eskimo, trying again and again for a crushing embrace. With each vain effort, Seymour exacted punishment with jabs and cuts to the face. Never was he caught by the other's powerful arms.
For the alleged half-breed, the contest was soon sanguinary. His eyes and lips suffered and his nose became grotesque. On the other hand, Seymour was practically unmarked except for a lump on his forehead and a splotch on his cheek where Bonnemort's fist had touched him.
Klootchmen and braves had come from all parts of the diggings and stood in an irregular circle, staring in open-eyed wonder at the battle. Moira was having an easy task keeping them back, although she still held the gun ready. No partisan spirit developed. If anything, their grunts at clinches evaded and blows sent home favored the strange, more compact fighter. The sergeant was unknown to them, but the fact that the mission girl sponsored him with gun point was enough for them.
Bonnemort's wind was first to fail him and for an untimed round or two, Seymour played for him with hard punches to the body at every opportunity. It became clear that the spoiler's bulk was more "beef" than muscle. He was becoming a spectacle. His rushes lost their force; his swings grew hopelessly wild; his guard, never effective, broke down entirely.
"Punishment enough for manhandling you?" Seymour asked Moira, as the whirligig of battle brought him facing her.
"Yes—yes, he's paid!" she cried.
The sergeant waded in then, regardless of the embrace he no longer feared. He beat Bonnemort to his knees. No coup de grâce was necessary, as the overgrown miner was blubbering for mercy. The Siwash gallery was beginning to grumble that none was delivered when they saw the victor produce a pair of handcuffs and snap them on the defeated one's wrists. Bonnemort seemed too dazed to notice the official trend in the situation, until—
"I arrest you, Harry Karmack, in the name of the King for the murder of Oliver O'Malley, at Armistice, Northwest Territories."
Stunned by the surprise of his capture, turned white by the shock of the unexpected charge, the former factor stared about him wildly.